The Dead Cell Club
by dustbunny
Summary: Will and Vaughn bond over alcohol. Sydney hovers.


The Dead Cell Club_  
  
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of, um. J.J. Abrams? Anyway, they're not mine.  
  
A/N: My respect for Vaughn went up significantly the second he threw that punch because, okay, I guess he's not made of wood after all. And seriously, I bet I'm not the only one who thinks that Will and Vaughn would SO get along.  
  
***  
  
When you walk into the pub it's already ten, and most of the drinkers who drop in for a quick gulp on the way home are gone. The hardcore drinkers are settling in, those who slump over at their tables with half-empty bottles of bourbon and whisky, and you give a quick cursory once-over to the rowdy frat boys stacking beer can pyramids before making your way to the counter. Here, now, are the elite few, depressed and staring blankly at the shot glasses in front of them, designer ties undone and suits rumpled.  
  
You figure you'll fit right in. Except you're wearing something like tweed with leather patches on the elbows (a remnant from the days you thought you were going to be a venerated professor), but once you're drunk it won't really matter all that much. You flip open your wallet with a world-weary sigh.  
  
You have exactly eighty-three cents. You sigh again, for real this time, and start working on the beer nuts in the little tray by your elbow. Ten minutes pass before the bartender gives you a strange look and subtly moves the beer nuts out of your reach. This has officially become one of the worse nights in your life.  
  
You stare idly in the mirror. To your left is a middle-aged man with a really frightening combover and red-rimmed eyes, motioning for another shot, and you shudder a little as you picture yourself in another ten years, balding and pathetic. To your right is a young man, looking a little out of place in the boisterous barroom. He's maybe a few years older than you and vaguely European, with a fine-boned face and tired, intelligent eyes. His jacket is slung neatly over the back of his chair, and his white shirt still retains traces of crisp creases. He looks like he has a reason to be drinking.  
  
This, you think, is the difference between a boy and a man. You look at yourself and get depressed all over again.  
  
A shot glass slides across the table, filled with a warm golden liquid you identify as scotch after a few definitive sniffs. You glance up, meeting the eyes of the bartender, who shrugs and inclines his head toward the young man, who's studying his glass diligently. You turn your attention to the inviting liquor, and then back at your benefactor.  
  
Nothing left to lose, right? You sidle over to him, hoping he isn't trying to pick you up---because, even though you're desperate and you could do worse, really, you haven't quite gotten to that point yet---and you set your full glass down carefully on the counter. He turns to look at you, and raises his glass in a silent toast. You tilt your head back and gulp down your scotch, feeling the amber heat sliding down your throat and burning in your stomach, and when you gasp and shake your head he's watching you, sipping his liquor slowly.  
  
"That better?" He asks, and his voice is low and cultured.  
  
You nod, vigorously, and try to find your voice. "Yeah. Tons. Thanks. What gives?" You pause, and realize you're not exactly exhibiting proper drinking etiquette. "I mean. Um. Thanks," you say again, and give up. There are reasons you didn't go into broadcasting, and all of them have to do with the word 'articulate' and how you're. Not. Especially with the pleasant warmth buzzing around in your brain. You're a pretty pathetic lightweight.  
  
He shrugs, noncommittally. "You look like you got problems. Nothing a drink wouldn't help."  
  
"Okay. Thanks," you say yet again, and groan inwardly. You'd give your brilliant writing ability for some basic conversational skills at this point---or even your normal babbling. You wait until you both finish another round before trying to speak. "You don't look all that great, either."  
  
He looks slightly amused. Always glad to be entertaining, you think to yourself, slightly miffed. "Yeah, well," he says, and the casual words sound strange coming from his mouth. "Work and women. Universal things."  
  
"You too, eh?" You say, feeling a sense of solidarity and downing the third shot that suddenly appears in front of you. Wait until the fuzz has settled firmly into your brain before you begin again. "'Cause there's this girl. And I'm in love with her---I've been in love with her ever since she played Boggle with me like, three years ago. I think she knows it, too, because I'm not the smoothest person ever, but it's just. Stalled."  
  
He looks slightly interested. "As in, how?"  
  
"As in I kissed her, when we were both kinda buzzed. Which was nice, kind of. And when I tried again, with a line and everything, it ended up with me staring at her and mumbling something and trying to get out of there. And the worst thing? She was nice about it, okay. Like, I could see her going 'Dude, you're a loser. But it's no big deal.'"  
  
He winces for you and orders another round. You notice the sickly, exhausted pallor he had when he started is mostly gone, and his eyes are bright and slightly glazed. "At least you got to try, you know? Like the girl I love---like? There's this big company policy that completely forbids fraternization," he stumbles, a little, over the words, "and it's just not, um. Safe, for us to do anything. I'm not even sure she knows I love---like her. Everything we talk about centers around work."  
  
"Man," you sympathize, glossing over the slip of the tongue. "She's kinda like that, too. So she was pissed at me for not understanding about job emergencies or something, and I went and---" you grimace slightly at the memory, "well. My intern answered the door in my shirt when she came to apologize, and that's just not cool."  
  
His eyebrows raise. "No, no, I got this one. The company psychologist is freaking out and psychoanalyzing me because I got her a present. And they're thinking of removing me from working with her. I threw a punch at this bastard this afternoon because he thinks I've got emotional issues. I mean, wow, y'know? I tried to punch someone." He looks amazed at himself, and you grin.  
  
You raise your glass, filled to the brim once more. "To morons like us," you say, and he echoes the sentiment, barely hesitating before tossing his shot back.  
  
"Hey," you manage to say after an interval, the edges of your words blurring into each other. "What's really the biggest ishue here?"  
  
He looks at you, startled, and blinks a few times before exhaling, slowly. "That. That I'm such a prick and I'm so responsible. That I can't go up to everyone and say 'y'know, just fuck off. I'm in love with this girl because she's strong and beautiful and I could be the one to take care of her when she cries.' Because after everything? My job comes first, and---oh, hell. I wish it didn't."  
  
You meet his eyes. "This girl comes first, over every single thing I can think of. My entire life revolves around her. I can't do anything without bringing her into it, and we don't work because she just doesn't---can't love me back. And every time I think I'm gonna get over this, she looks at me and I'm a goner all over again."  
  
He nods slowly. You sit in silence with him for an indeterminable amount of time, digesting and thinking, and suddenly you feel a smile playing at the corner of your lips because really, you're not a writer for nothing. You can recognize irony when you hear it, no matter how many brain cells you've lost. His shoulders are shaking, and you can see that he's trying to suppress his chuckles. In another second or so you're both roaring with laughter, and the lone drunk collapsed at the table looks up at you with bleary eyes.  
  
"Oh, God," he says, calming down to a few hiccups. "Okay."  
  
You smirk at him, shaking your head and watching the world spin pleasantly around you for a few revolutions. When everything comes into focus, more or less, you notice that the drunk's gone, and you two are the only people left in the room save the bartender, who looks meaningfully at you and then at the clock.  
  
It's one-thirty, and you've just spent nearly four hours of your life unloading your problems on a poor unsuspecting stranger. The part in you that thinks about these things delivers a swift mental kick because you've been brought up to think that's incredibly rude. But then you look over at him, standing up unsteadily and shrugging into his expensive suit jacket, and there, now, is the understanding between two men stuck in the same boat. Just on different ends.  
  
You hold onto the counter as you force your legs to straighten, and when you're pretty sure you're not going to collapse facedown on the floor he holds out his hand. You blink, once, and shake it heartily.  
  
"Michael Vaughn, workaholic," he says.  
  
"Will Tippin, emotional doormat," you say, and he grins.  
  
You watch as he walks out the door and sneak a handful of those beer nuts when the bartender's not looking, and when you step out into the biting night air you can still make out a thin, straight figure against the streetlights. You're probably never going to see him again, and it's a shame, you think, jamming your hands in your pockets and heading in the opposite direction.  
  
You get this feeling that you could have been friends.  
  
***  
  
_01222002 (jen@velvet-star.com) 


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